


I Don't Blame You

by Littleartistan



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, major feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:17:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littleartistan/pseuds/Littleartistan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Butch Deloria saw many deaths in Vault 101, he saw some of the people closest to him die. Once he reached Rivet City, he thought his problems would be over and that he was saved. There's one danger left to him now. <br/>Himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One whiskey, One Beer, One Wine. One Tequila, One Shot, Repeat.

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a gift to my dear friend Momo-Deary. Be warned if the tags didn't, this fic isn't going to be some easy cake walk. There are going to be MAJOR challenges that Butch and others face.
> 
> This was originally posted on my tumblr as well.

He had been sitting in the Muddy Rudder for some hours now, drinking. Each drink that Trinnie gave him was gone just as fast as they got to him. He was drinking to remember, he was drinking to forget. He had been in Rivet City for just under 9 months, every day beginning to morph into the next. The Vault had gone to shit, the Overseer became a Dictator. He and what few friends he had left turning against him. Every time he shut his eyes, he could see bodies. He could hear people calling out to him as he ran, ‘Butch! You bastard!’

 He just ran, and ran, and ran.

The door had been opened, but he didn’t know why.  All it meant was that he was out of there. Amata had been waiting outside, sitting there. Her eyes trained on the Wastes, as if she was waiting for someone to come. She had started the revolt, and now she wanted no part in it. He grabbed as much as he could, from his room, abandoned rooms, and bodies. Those faces he never forgot, wide eyes, lips stained red, some even gasping for breathes. Those Butch left, he wouldn’t be the one to loot a man near death. Once he walked outside, Amata was gone. Her body was still there, but she wasn’t. Butch ran down the rocky side towards any place that wasn’t a war.

Megaton was the first place, a room in Moriarty’s and some food from the Lantern. Nova tried to talk to him, Gob as well when Moriarty wasn’t nearby. They tried to find out what had caused the man to jump at the sound of a gun or to break out in rash behavior at the drop of a pin. They knew he was as broken as their radio, he was just more difficult to try and put back together. His room was empty one morning, whatever could be carried gone. The saloon was the same, the liquor instead with Moira. Her cash box nearly empty and her ammunition supply was the same. She told them that the Vault Boy had run off, never said where he was going but that he needed to be far away. As far away as he could get. The boy took off chasing the horizon and the rising sun.

 He reached Rivet city a few days later, bloodied, bruised, and his bag full. The metal gleaming like the vault he had lived in for so long, but this vault wasn’t full of corpses and deranged overseers. Their eyes watched him as he walked in, a smirk playing on his lips. He spoke as little as he could. Butch didn’t want anyone to know what hid behind that smirk, the events that had led to him walking across the bridge to the floating city of metal.  He sold what he could, fixed himself up a room, and walked into the bar. That one seat became his new home.

One whiskey, one beer, one wine. One tequila, one shot, repeat.

 It was a pattern he had developed once he first discovered there was a stocked bar on the ship. The Security Guards had to escort him out of there and to his room more than once. When he couldn’t get the images out of his head, they would drag him out more than once a day. They told him to sober up, or be thrown off the ship. Lana had taken pity on him, neither of them knew why. Day after day, week after week, her hands were the ones that dropped Butch into his cot and shut out the lights.

 Only to repeat the pattern the next morning.

 He was only tossed off when Harkness was truly pissed off at him, and even then it was a rare occurrence. If Lana didn’t intervene before, then in the water he went. He would climb back up, and head to his room. Trying to sleep the booze off, when he dreamed drunk, the dreams were black. Those were the nights he found peace. He would just stare at the black, feeling as if the hours he slept off the booze were merely minutes he had laid there and had just shut his eyes. If he was even just the slightest bit sober, the red and silver flashed behind his eyes. He couldn’t fight those fights, he always lost.

 He had gotten into a number of conscience fights as well, bloodied faces that wouldn’t disappear no matter how many punches he threw. Each one faded into the next, a kick to his side would snap him out of the hallucination. Freddie, Amata, his mother, they disappeared. Instead Flak, Shrapnel, and Chief Harkness stood there. The group of them just as bloodied and bruised as he was, all of them breathing heavily, rearing up again. The fights were few and far between. They happened more frequently when the date came around. He would always remember the single day, that day destroyed what he had of a life. Harkness would stand outside the bar, forbidding him from entering. Butch would turn back to his room, pick up his gun, and wouldn’t reappear for a number of days. Nothing came back with him but wounds.

“Found something instead of beer to kill yourself with?”

Shrapnel would say as he grabbed the busted gun from Butch’s hands. He put a smirk on his face, but wouldn’t say a word.

“Serves you right, wouldn’t want to be the one who drags your sorry ass off of the ship when you finally poison yourself.”

Fists clenched, but stayed where they were. The two men barraged him with insults and realizations that he knew. He knew them all too well; he was a drunk, an idiot, a loner, and a psychopath.  Butch had turned into that, he had become his father. He had become the man who made his and his mother’s life hell until he was finally taken away. They never spoke of him again; he disappeared with the little innocence that remained in him. The space was replaced with friends, greased hair, and troublemaking. Then that was gone when the revolution happened in the vault. Everyone there knew how it started.

The damn doctor and his good for nothing daughter, running off into the wastes. Once everyone knew that they could leave, they attempted to do so in flocks. The Overseer went mad, not wanting any more people escaping from his control. Amata tried to reason with him, but that was when Butch erupted. They flooded the halls, threw paint, and created more mayhem for the Overseer. Soon the security was after them. They fought. Innocent people were caught in the backlash. Amata blamed him for the trouble, saying that if he did what she told him to do then more people would be alive.

‘Just follow my plans…’

Those were the words that caused all of this. Butch killed those people, the ones who deserved it and the ones who didn’t. He made his own plan and went along with it, he caused the hysteria. He had killed the people who meant nothing to him and the people who meant the most to him in the world. His mother was one of the first people to go, caught in the crossfire when some of the Vault Security were trying to fight off Butch and his men.

He watched her turn to see him, and then fall. He waited for the fire to die down before going to grab her. He dragged her behind a wall and held onto her. He held onto her and sobbed like the child he was. He couldn’t hold it all in, but she was whispering to him.

‘Butch….Butch….Butch Deloria….DELORIA!’

He jumped up, but soon fell back down onto the medical bed below him. Doctor Preston stood above him, Harkness next to him; his hands were the ones holding onto Butch. Sweat poured down his frame, shaking violently.

“You’re going through withdrawl.”

“What?”

His mind pounded, he could barely comprehend anything being said to him.

“You….alcohol….too long…fighting…”

He was going in and out, fighting to stay awake. Finally he just succumbed to the darkness and slipped into a fitful sleep.


	2. Only In My Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Butch has successfully drowned himself in enough booze to stop seeing what happened, but are the vision truly gone? Or is Butch's body finally giving up?

 It was bright behind his eyes; an arm came up to block his view. He could make out rocks, and burnt out buildings. He knew those rocks, he knew where they lead. Feet pounded against the pavement, the sounds of wind buzzed by his ears. He felt a smile tug onto his face. Everything was fixed; everything that happened was a bad dream. He was going home finally, the Overseer would let him back in, and his mother would be waiting right there for him. Amata met him outside the door, throwing herself into his arms with a laugh before pushing him through that rickety door. The grand metal door was already open, figures mulling about in the area.  No sounds came, but he moved his lips. One turned, and she ran to him. He had armfuls of red hair and a pounding on his chest. Her body quaked as she felt tears wrack through her. 

He looked up and saw Freddie, his mother, and even the Overseer standing in the doorway. They were smiling, laughing, and alive. The doc was even there waving at him and his daughter. The two of them just standing there, caught in the middle between the Vault and the Wastes. His feet could move, between the weight pressing into him and the euphoric feeling washing over him. Finally, he was home, and finally the dreams and the images would stop. He could finally go on living. He pressed his face down into the head in front of him, happy to have a living person once again in his arms.

‘Butch…’ 

Her voice whispered to him, pushing away from him. He looked down smiling, expecting to see the familiar face of a girl who had run far away. In her place stood only the shell of that woman, her face torn apart and decaying. Her voice nothing as he remembered, now gravely and coarse. Her mouth opened, tear reaching for his neck. With a push and a pull of a trigger, she was gone. The others turned. Their faces distorted and torn apart, some worse off than others. 

‘Butch…’ 

‘Come to Momma, baby boy.’ 

‘Deloria…come greet your Overseer.’ 

‘Tunnel Snakes Rule.’  

He could move. His gun raised and firing off as quickly as he could. The people fell, but didn’t stop. The young woman at his feet still tried to stand; her pretty red hair now stained a darker red. His mother moved closer, holes riddling her from the last time he saw her. Her body lurched and moved with the others, some moaning and groaning. The voices he recognized called out to him over, and over, and over again. 

‘Come sit with Mommy.’ 

‘Butchie, baby…’ 

‘We’re Tunnel Snakes again.’ 

He couldn’t watch any much longer. He had seen them falling, dying once before. To see it a second time only implanted the images into his head, searing them there for him to never forget what he did. He felt the weight of the gun in his hand. There was only way out of this situation, and he was the only one who would be able to get him out of it. Butch looked at the people in front of him one last time, raising his hand up towards his own skull. Eyes clamped shut as he pulled the trigger, and opened only seconds later.

The view before him included a privacy screen, and a metal ceiling. He could hear people shuffling about, and a warm body sitting next to him. He sat up slowly, stomach rolling. Someone shoved a bucket into his hands as his stomach emptied what little food and drink was left in it. 

“You okay, kid?”  

It was Lana’s voice that spoke. He wiped his mouth as she took the bucket and placed it on the floor. Truthfully, it felt as if he had relived and relived the worst possible day of his life. His skin felt on fire, and he could swear he felt the heaviness of his pistol in his hand still. Lana’s hand gingerly touched his back, but the reaction she got was violent. His body jerked away, jumping off the table in the process. 

“I-I’m fine….j-j-j-just don’t touch me!”  

Her hands stopped in the air before returning to her sides. She nodded and watched Butch, his whole demeanor crumbling in front of her. His hands were shaking, he was shaking. His eyes darted back and forth, back and forth. They didn’t rest on anything for more than a second. She watched his sit on the edge of the bed before taking a heaving, gasping breath. She walked around with a glass of water, holding it in front of his eyes. He drank like a man stranded.  

“You were out for a few hours, I’ve been watching you. You’re not fine.”  

His eyes locked with hers. 

“You’re sick, both physically and mentally.”  

Butch nodded as she took the glass and wiped his forehead with a towel. He let her push him into lying down on the bed, tucking the blanket around him. His hair was pushed off his forehead, a cool towel replacing it. He sighed and waited for her to sit and speak. She asked him simple questions, what happened before he came to Rivet City, what lead him to drink so profusely, and what happened when he was asleep that caused him to always react so violently. 

They were answered with silence. He didn’t want to answer; he refused to put what he had seen into words. He knew the power of words. He knew what it meant to say something and for someone not to listen to them. Lana’s hand rubbed his shoulder tenderly before standing up. She looked at him one last time before leaving. Butch strained his ears to hear what she way whispering to the doctor, but it was no use. Between the blood pulsing in his ears to the drumming noise, the fact he could still hear the rusted metal settling was a feat in its own right.

He watched her go, and the doctor replace her. He poked and prodded him, checking his eyes, his heart, and about anything else he could reach. The pair worked in silence, Butch preferred it that way. The man handed Butch his Vault suit, undershirt, and jacket. The leather felt like home, protective, and safe. 

“You must return every other day for me to see how the withdrawal is going. You are not allowed into the Muddy Rudder anymore.”  

Butch jumped when he said that. No booze only meant that he wouldn’t sleep. No booze only meant that he would see them, constantly. He grabbed his stuff and walked out of the small clinic. His room was the only place her could go, now that the bar was off limits. He walked aimlessly down the halls, his leather jacket now armor against the looks and stares. Even the Cantellis seemed to sneer him off, making him feel as if he finally hit rock bottom. 

His room felt cold, and empty. He felt empty. He tossed what little items he carried on his bed, hands grabbing at the black locks atop his head. He could feel everything start to tear at the seams. Butch never felt like this, everything volatile, swirling within him. The last time he felt this lost was inside the vault. There were promises made in silence that he would never go through this again. Now, every single feeling he was repressing before climbed out at him, clawing to escape from inside. The images were more and more insistent, his body crazing the alcohol, and his mentality starting to wear down slowly. He grabbed a book off that shelf and threw it across the room. 

“Fuck.” 

One book was in shreds. The pages fluttered through the air. 

“Fuck!” 

A handful of miscellaneous knick knacks shattered against the wall. 

“FUCK!” 

It wasn’t a human noise that came out of him; everything and everyone in the ship seemed to stop. They listened to the sound of a people becoming completely and utterly destroyed, the noise maker crumpling to the floor below. The sound seemed to resonate through the metal, entering each any every crack within the ship.


	3. Falling Into Hidden Cracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therapy has begun, reluctantly. Butch meets with a man who claims he can stop the dreams, but how can he? Butch lets himself fall back onto old habits, reluctant to change.

“Hello Butch, my name is Doctor Hayes Lepidus.”

Fabric shifted, but no words.

“I know I’m a new face, but I think that’s what you need right now.” 

Butch scoffed, but still didn’t say anything. What he needed was to get back to the bar, or at least his room. Lana had checked up on him in the morning, finding him in a dead sleep on the floor of the trashed room. She cleaned up and put him to bed, now the three of there were here for Butch’s mandatory counseling. All of it was a joke. He didn’t need counseling, what he needed was a cold drink. Lana’s eyes bore into him, a mix of a mother’s concern and official duty. He couldn’t get up and leave, she stood right next to the door, preventing just that. 

“Now, Officer Lana and Chief Harkness tell me that you’ve developed alcoholism, and are prone to bouts of severe rage.” 

Hands fiddled with the straps on his jacket. He adverted his eyes to anywhere but the two people in the room. There was no way he would open up to some stranger.

“It also says here you lived in a Vault before coming here. What was that like, Butch?”

‘Hell.’ 

He thought as bile rose in his throat. There was nothing like Vault life, someone asserting complete control over you. Guards posed every few feet, making sure no one steps out of line. There were good things about the Vault, Wally, Freddie, and hell even Mr. Brotch. He had good times with them, fond memories below the purveying darkness. His mother was his mom, she had her problems but he would never not love her. 

“You don’t have to speak; this is only our first time meeting.” 

Eye roll.

“But I do want to get to know how I can help you.”

Lana made a noise behind them, Butch knew what she meant by it. If he did this for every meeting that followed then she would resort to other measure to make his comply. She would say it was for his own good. She would go on to say that she really did care for him, and the others did too. Butch inwardly sighed; after all of the shit he did he didn’t deserve to be cared for. He killed so many people, destroyed so many lives in the process, and just ran away from it all. If he did deserve anything, it was a bullet in his temple. He deserved to kill himself with booze. If they cared for him at all they would at least let him go out in the way he wanted to. 

“So?” 

Butch said to make the woman happy. It was full of malice and distrust. His true feelings buried under the new armor he wore. 

“So I want to help you, it seems that there are people here who want you to be well. I’ve seen people in much worse positions than you and they change their life around because they want to stop hurting the people they love most.” 

Well, that was easy enough for him. The people he loved most were already dead. If he was going to hurt them any more than he already has, he would have to go back to the Vault and burn the place down with everything in it. He slouched down into the chair, flicking his toothpick opened and shut. The doctor looked up at him and scribed a few notes before he sighed and get up. 

“I know you don’t want to talk to me, but the sooner you talk to me the sooner you’ll feel better.” 

Butch nodded and watched the doctor leave. Lana walked over to him, placing a hand on the top of his head. He moved, pulling a comb out to fix his hair. He shot a glare at her as she crossed her arms.

“The silent act is only going to earn you more time in here. Now, get up. You can go anywhere on the boat but you know the rules.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

He pushed past the woman and tugged his collar to cover his face. He needed a smoke, and he needed one now. Since he gave up the booze, he had been smoking twice as much. Thank God he was able to snag a few from Paulie when he was high off his mind. The fact that most of the people had taken an interest in him and his problem, but didn’t give a shit about Paulie pissed him off. The man had more problems than he did. 

He heard Vera gossiping about him when she thought he wasn’t nearby. Father Clifford even prayed for him a few times, offering to let him come in and talk. That was met with a finger thrown at him, before Butch continued to the upper deck. He usually slunk off behind the huge metal planes that littered the deck. Security didn’t see him, and he knew that Harkness and Lana couldn’t find him unless they were really looking for him. 

‘Fucking finally…’

Was Butch’s only thought when he slid behind the planes, he popped open one of the compartments on the plane, pulling out a bottle. There were a handful and a half inside, some opened, some nearly empty and a few untouched. A cap came off, and Butch could finally relax. The liquid burned in his throat, but dulled soon enough.

‘Screw what the doc said. I know how to handle myself!’ 

Those were the only bottles Butch was able to hide before Harkness and Lana cleaned him out. He had a few scattered around the rest of the ship, and even a handful in the broken off half. Those were his emergency bottles. He would only go for those if he was truly desperate for a drink. He let his feet hang off the side, dangling above the water. The liquor did its job, he stopped hear the Doc’s voice and instead just listened to the boat and the water below.

He was happy that he was able to forget the noise of the Vault. The bullets whizzing through the air, the screams, the shouts, Amata screaming at her father to stop. All of it disappeared and was replaced with water moving and brushing against rusted metal, the boat’s old and rust hinges moving, and the sound of whiskey sloshing inside his bottle. 

“Fuck.”

Butch said as he threw back the rest of the bottle and chucked it into the water. The images were coming back even with all of the booze. Was it really losing its effect? He needed the burn, he needed the fact it could erase everything from him. It numbed him. 

“Fuck!”

 Tears started to burn behind his eyes, nails digging into his vault suit. He grabbed another bottle and downed it in one motioned, nearly puked as the numbness hit him in one large wave. That was what he needed. Butch laid back onto the cold metal and watched the clouds roll by as he got pleasantly buzzed. He watched the clouds roll above him, the motion continuous and constant. 

Butch slowly sipped another bottle, not wanting to down everything in one sitting. He needed to make this last as long as he possible could. He didn’t worry about Lana finding the bottles, citizens weren’t allowed anywhere near them planes and security didn’t care to inspect them as long as they didn’t go anywhere. Here he could be alone, without doctors telling him what he should and shouldn’t do, or brain docs trying to pry where they shouldn’t. No security chiefs hounding him for causing fights and drunken conduct. No nosey security trying to replace his mother and fix him. No nosy women trying to find a new story to tell everyone they possibly could.

‘It’s only me. That’s how it should be. I don’t need anyone to tell me, force me, or question me. That’s how it should always be.’

Butch finished another bottle, throwing it into the air. He waited until he heard the resounding splash of it hitting the water before opening a third bottle. He looked up into the compartment, he would need to find a way to restock soon or he would be out. Butch couldn’t walk into the bar; the entire boat would be alerted to it within minutes. It seemed as if it was time for a trip into the broken bow, and the more secretive spaces he had discovered on the boat.


	4. Grown Men Are Still Someone's Sons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally reconnected with his beloved drinks, Butch lets the burn of alcohol take over. When he's visited by someone, Butch shows something that he once thought was gone forever.

Getting off of the boat had been everything short of a miracle. He watched the Guards change at the usual times, waiting until the midday guards walked away from the bridge for a smoke break. Rivet City claimed to have the tightest security in all of the Wastelands, but human error and nature left pin sized holes in the nearly indestructible fortress. All he had to do was wait for the right moment, the right second when eyes were trained on each other or a cigarette and not the bridge. Years of sneaking around the Vault had taught him some tricks about being light on your feet, and at this moment he was glad he could still remember it.

‘Just like old times, sneaking into the Overseer’s office to mess around…’

Butch could remember the number of times Wally, Paul, and he snuck into terminals to change door passwords, or change when certain lights went out in the Vault. He nearly let a laugh escape his lips the time he and Paul tossed Wally at a guard just so the two of them could get away. No, being nostalgic could wait, right now he was on a mission.

He waited until the first guard leaned over the railing and watched the water hit the shore as he puffed on a cigarette to slide behind the metal sheet that connected the wall of the bridge to the ship. The next step was to watch the other guard, turn to walk towards the other end of the ship before he could slither down the metal walk way. From there, it was quick and quiet footsteps the rest of the way down.

Butch stopped at the end, hiding behind a wall. He placed a finger up to his lips, silencing the man’s cries for water. He allowed himself a few minutes to wipe the sweat off of his brow before climbing down the metal staircase. The last step was to wait until he was sure no one was watching the shore to run, and run he did. He didn’t stop running until he was pressed tightly against the wall next to the broken bow’s door. He heard a few guards shout about seeing something moving, and Butch held his breathe. The commotion stopped when he heard Harkness’s voice calm them, telling them that there was nothing out there and that they should get back to work.  
Butch dropped to his knees and did just that.

This was supposed to be an easy pick; he had done it a hundred times before. Some were for serious investigation into the broken bow, others were just for him to screw around and practice. He had wasted 3 bobby pins already on the damn lock and he had a feeling the Guards would notice sooner than later that he was trying to sneak off where he wasn’t supposed to be.

His hands were shaking.

Butch needed something to drink now. Finally, he heard the resounding click of the tumblers falling into place. In he went, shutting the door a second later. He leaned against it, gulping for air through the drumming noises in his ears. He started to move quickly, trying to collect the bottle he could remember, and even some he didn’t remember. He ran up stairs, and ran right back down. Butch ducked into doorways and slid under tables. His feet alerted a few Mirelurks, but those were killed off with a few shots from his plasma pistol.

There were about 10 new bottles of whiskey and scotch in a box he found during his search. A few wines, vodka, and a number of old beers were also included in the box. The latter group he had come across while he was trying to find his own saving graces. The load was carried carefully to the room he commandeered for himself the first time Harkness tossed him off the boat and told him not to come back until he sobered up.

All of the essentials were there, another set of clothes, beer, some ammo, vodka, and about a week’s worth of food. Butch knew there was no way for him to sneak all of the liquor back to the main part of Rivet City, but spending some time alone with his poison would do him some good. Corks were popped and vodka flowed, Butch collapsing onto the dusty cot as he drank.

‘Home Sweet home…’  
He thought ironically as he swallowed another mouthful. The jitters started to leave him; he felt the sweat starting to actual cool down his brow instead of heating it beyond compare. The whole of him slipped into a state of calm.

“Butch…”

Black filled his mind and enveloped him, the usual feeling of pin pricks and pokes started to leave him. Instead rolling feelings of comfort and homeliness filled him from his core and outwards. Butch could smell the Vault again, the musty and damp odor of the boat being replaced by the metallic and abraxo scent of the rooms back home.

“Are you going to Scarborough fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.”

He felt a hand on his forehead, wiping the hair away. He didn’t open his eyes he just reveled the feeling, he knew it was his mother. She hummed a quiet tune to him, the one she sang to him when he was little. She always sang it to him when he was scared or couldn’t get to sleep.

“Tell him to make me a cambric shirt. Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.”

People always thought she was a horrible woman, but in the privacy of their rooms she was his mother through and through. He leaned into the hand as he sipped another mouthful of vodka. The bottle slipped from his grasp and landed with a dull thud on the floor. Weight shifted on the bed, and he could almost feel someone cradling him in their lap.

“Between the salt water and the sea strand then he’ll be a true love of mine.”

Her voice lowly cooed to him as he felt a gently rocking through the alcoholic daze. Her hand worked the gel out and gently scratched at his scalp. He felt for the fabric of her vault suit and clutched it in his hands, taking a deep breathe of her smell. It was a mix of the liquor she drank and the smell that was her alone. The Vault smell was on everyone, that scent was unavoidable when you lived in the same place for all of your life. A metallic scent that permeated every inch of you, but after so long, it became second nature to him. Butch could barely recall the smell, only remembering what it smelt like once he stepped into the Vault like of the broken bow.

In his mother’s arms, all he could smell was her. He never knew just how she got that smell, but it was something of her that he loved no matter what.

“Remember me to one who lives there. He once was a true love of mine.”

The voice hummed out the last bars of the song, and the flood gates opened. Butch sobbed into his mother’s clothing, her hands tightening around him and she tried to shush him. She rocked a little more, as if he was an infant. A hand slipped under his leather jacket, rubbing soothing circles over the span of his back, even stopping to give gentle pats when he shook the hardest. He hiccupped and sniffled, cradling his mother to him as if he had been gone for many years and had just returned.

“I’m sorry…”

“Sssh, sshh…”

“I’m so sorry, Mom.”

He clung to her as he shook violently. Her words whispered through his ears, mixed between her repeating the song’s chord over and over in an effort to calm him. Her hands gently laid him back down, but he wanted to refuse, he wanted to hold on so she would never leave again.

“I’m not going anywhere, I’m always here.”

He still clung to her Vault suit, hands gripped like an infant latched onto their parent. He could feel the fabric, so she must be with him. Butch tried to open his eyes, but they stung. The salt blurred his vision to the point that it hurt more to open them than to let them remain shut. He used his free hand to scrub them out, forcing himself to look into the face of the woman he looked up to the most.

“Butch, look at me.”

Butch finally felt the sting leave his eyes, and opened them but the pair staring back at him didn’t have the tender warmth that he felt before. The eyes staring back were not of his mother.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Butch's secret is found out, but will they be able to look past the drinks scattered and see what was going on? The pair may have a brief reconciliation, but it's short lived.

Butch jumped a mile in the air, kicking out at the person. They grabbed his foot, and Butch ended a mess on the floor, vodka tipped over and spilling out. He got his foot out of their grasp and swung. His hand connected and they staggered back, even drunk and emotional boiling Butch had a mean right hook. The person steadied themselves before Butch could hit them again, and he tried. The alcohol and the fact he dreamed the exchange with him mother fueled him. The other human blocked Butch’s drunken punches, but didn’t expect the knee to the gut.

‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.’

Was the only thing going through Butch’s mind as he tried to right himself for the fight. His eyes were still tear stained, and the salt still burned in them. He had to get them out of the way, Butch wasn’t much of a fighter in his current state.

The man leaned over to take a breath, but Butch’s hand had other ideas. He swung his arm out, trying to collide with the other person’s head. Instead the punch landed more in the shoulder area, pushing them up to look at Butch. He didn’t make the connection as to who it was before Butch felt a first collide with his jaw. Butch staggered back and fell down onto his cot, head connecting with the metal wall. The figure stopped, chest heaving just a bit. They leaned over to catch their breath as Butch did the same, but clutched his pounding head. Now he was nursing what was turning into a hangover, conflicting thoughts about a woman who was supposed to be dead, and now a possible concussion.

“So…this…this is where…you’ve been…been hiding.”

They panted out as they stood back up. It was Harkness, out of all of the people to find him in this state it had to be the ice man himself. Butch didn’t feel like running, knowing that somehow Harkness would get the upper hand on him and catch him. Instead, he salvaged what he could of the vodka. Sitting down on his cot he watched Harkness look around the room.

He drank deeply, and quickly. He would rather be blacked out than listen to Harkness complain about how he was ‘setting back all of the work he had already accomplished.’ He heard the routine a hundred times before from others in different words. Hearing it from the chief would be playing an already repeating record again.  
Harkness sighed as he looked around, Butch had absolutely no idea what was going on in the ice man’s head. He grabbed one of the bottles of whiskey, popping it open and drinking out of it as Harkness walked around and looked at many of the bottles of liquor that Butch had stashed around the room. The security chief grabbed one of the beers and settled it into his hands.

“So this is what you do, sneak off and keep drinking.”

He chuckled, and sighed. The next words came out a little quieter as he lightly shook the bottle in his hand.

“And here I thought we collected all of it.”

“So? What’s it matter to you? My liquor, my choice.”

The face Harkness gave him was unreadable. He could have been thinking about anything, from killing Butch in cold blood to just letting him keep all of the booze. Butch was leaning heavily on the hopes that Harkness was just going to leave and let him enjoy his booze in peace.

“So what? The therapy and medical treatments are nothing to you?”

Butch looked him dead in the eyes, the same deathly stare piercing into each other. The room felt cold, Butch finished the vodka and chucked the bottle at one of the walls, the shattering noise fazing neither of them, they just moved closer to each other.

“Your fucking docs can’t do a damn thing.”

A punch was thrown, and it sent them into a flurry. Hands were grabbing everywhere, legs tangling as they tried to get footing. Butch threw him fist out and connected to the opposite side of Harkness’s face. His hands were wild, alcohol and fury spurring him on. Harkness put his hands up as if the fight was a boxing match, throwing out a handful of quick jabs, one catching Butch’s nose. A resounding crack came from it followed by a long stream of blood. Harkness continued and got another solid punch on Butch’s left eye, the skin quickly blackening.

Butch grabbed Harkness’s armor’s collar, and tossed him to the floor. He jumped on top of the other man, making it impossible for him to get up without throwing Butch off of him. 

Before the chief could react, Butch was on top of him, pinning him to the cold, metal floor. The Tunnel Snake let out deep, angry puff of words and air. He wiped his nose from blood, and tried to see through the alcohol and black, swollen eye.

“Your docs can’t fix it.”

He picked Harkness up a bit before slamming him back into the ground.

“You can’t fix it.”

He punched Harkness in the face again.

“No one can fix it.”

He leaned close to Harkness’s bloodied and bruised face. His own face mirroring the other man’s in terms of damage. He licked some of the blood off of his lips, a sneer following the motion.

“Because I don’t want to be fixed.”

Harkness pushed Butch off, and he did without complaint. A bottle of scotch was snatched off a table, Butch downing the contents as he watched Harkness right himself. The taste of blood and scotch mixed on Butch’s tongue, but at this point he could have cared less. 

That bottle was finished and another followed.

He was drinking for everything, to forget the dream, forget he cried, forget the fight, and to forget the look in Harkness’s eyes when he first woke up. That look alone struck something in him and he didn’t want to feel it again. Butch refused to feel anything expect pleasant drunkenness ever again. Harkness stood up and leaned against the small table in the corner as he cleaned his face up.

“So, you really plan on drinking all of this?”

Butch made a confirmative noise as he continued his liquor intake. Harkness walked around the room collecting all of the alcohol. He placed it on the table, some over flowing onto a chair and into the box. The amount would make any sane person ill at just the sight of it. To Butch, that was just enough to make him happy for a little while. Soon enough he would have to steal more or go scavenging out in the wastes for it.

“Well, it seems like I can’t get you to stop drinking all of it.”

Butch didn’t reply.

“So I’m going to let you drink it.”

Finally, the words Butch wanted to hear since Harkness had walked into the room. The next step of action was for Harkness to walk out of the room, cancel the appointments with the doc and leave Butch in the broken bow to drink him happy. He finished the bottle and grabbed another off the table before Harkness spoke to him.

“Well, then you’re going to drink it all…”

That was the plan if he’d leave him alone and get to work on it.

“but right now, all of it gone today.”


	6. Til The Last Drop Is Dry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one man who stood between Butch and his only solace stands before him. Butch is trapped, he's been exposed and what can he do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! I posted the wrong chapter for 6 and just now realized it! So here we go, the ACTUAL chapter 6...sorry about that!
> 
> -Artistan

Harkness had to have hit his head during the fight; that was the only reason Butch thought of as to why Harkness would even let that thought get past his lips. The current bottle of alcohol was still in his hand as he cocked a nearly drunken eyebrow at the other man, he needed to choose his next words carefully.

“What the fuck did you just say?"

“You heard me right, Deloria. Drink it, all of it, while I’m here.”

Well, Butch wasn’t one to turn away from a challenge. One bottle was finished and another picked up, followed by another, and another after that. Harkness better start putting his money where his mouth was. Butch let out a drunken snort and wiped some of the excess liquor from his lips. Whiskey was hard to drink on its own, but Butch had perfected it to an art form. The trick was to just ignore everything that told you to stop and just keep going. Three bottles finished, Harkness handed him a fourth, two boxes, the table, and a few scattered around the man were left. Something niggled in the back of his mind, telling him to stop before he killed himself but Butch paid it absolutely no mind. His own mind was warm and swimming with bad thoughts and memories, but each sunk down, down, down into his mind. 

“So why do it, Deloria? Is this what you did in the Vaults?”

Another bottle finished, no words spoken. What he did in the Vault was inhuman, drinking was human, and that in his mind balanced everything out. The more he drank, the more human he was. 

“Feeling like you want to quit yet?

“N-no chance!”

His words were surprisingly clear for a man who had drank 5 bottles of pure alcohol. His blood had to be more whiskey than anything else at that very moment. He was a Deloria, and if Delorias did anything well it was drink. 

“What would your mother think of this? Her son’s an alcoholic.” 

His mom would be happy, she’d love that the boy who killed her was killing himself. She would love that he was wasting away on cheap liquor that he had nicked from a bar. Wherever she was, she was smiling at him. Watching him down bottle after bottle of booze just so he could erase the image of her, blurring her face from his mind. He wanted her to hate him right now, he wanted her to look down with a sneer as he choked on the booze. She was laughing at him, his own mother. He hated her, he hated everything about her.

“She…she’d be happy.”

Harkness seemed stunned looking at him with a raised brow.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything more idiotic come out of your mouth.” 

“You suuure about thaaat?” 

“What mother wouldn’t look at you and feel sad?” 

“Mine’d b-be…be happy, man. Trust….trust me.” 

Another bottle of whiskey down, onto wine. 

“Is that what this is about? You’re sad about mommy not hugging you enough?” 

"Fuck you man! You have no idea!”

 An empty bottle was tossed, missing Harkness by a few miles. Butch swayed where he stood, getting up too fast from where he was sitting. There was so much booze in him it was making him sick. He felt worse than he had ever had before. Something wasn’t sitting with him right, but it wasn’t in his stomach. His chest hurt, as if someone was stepping on his heart.

“You have no idea what I’ve seen!”

“Try me, Deloria. I’ve seen a hell of a lot.”

“Have you ever….ever…ever watched the fuckin’ life leave the one person you loved most? W-w-where you the one holding their fuckin’ corpse in your arms while you cried like a goddamn five year old!? You try living every single fucking day knowing that somewhere out there, there is a place where you were born and raised, and you started the one thing that destroyed all of it. I wake up every goddamn night seeing it over and over and over, I was too goddamn stupid and it caused some of the best people I ever knew their lives. I caused it all. I caused every single person in that Vault to die. It was my entire goddamn fault. Tell me, Chief. Tell me if you ever fuckin’ caused the deaths of so many people that didn’t deserve it that you didn’t want to live any more but you’re still too much of a goddamn coward to pull the trigger!?   That’s why I fuckin’ drink! I fuckin’ killed my own mom, my best friend, and a hell of a lot of people who never had it coming. I made one goddamn mistake and it caused me the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Butch smashed the half full wine bottle on the floor. Red splashing everywhere, onto his clothes, his hands, and all over the floor. It looked just like the blood he spilt, the blood of so many people. The room swayed under Butch, Harkness made a move to catch him. He felt something snap within him. Something that had been holding on for a good, long time.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me.”

His mind was clear, every little thing going on the room was as clear as day. The sound Harkness’s armor made when it connected back with the wood, the hitch in the man’s breathing when he saw Butch wipe at an eye. Butch knew what he was doing, he knew just what he had done, and it killed him inside. Harkness had fuckin’ done it, he broke through the spikes and the leather and the hatred Butch had built around him, and he had done it with the one thing Butch was using to build that up. He had successfully done what Lana, the doctor, Flak, Shrapnel, and so many of the other people on the boat failed to do, and he had done it without blinking an eye.

“Don’t you dare fuckin’ touch me.”

Butch let Harkness grab him and pull him into the hug. The silent tears slowly dissolved into full on screaming sobs. Every single piece of him shattered into smaller and smaller bits with each scream. Harkness said nothing, just letting Butch get what he needed out. The man held him fast, even after his legs refused to do it themselves. Butch’s stomach felt horrible, his chest heaved with each breathe, his eyes burned like they never had before, but through it all he felt better than he had in a long, long time. Something within him released, that thing finally let go of all the ill will he had towards himself, the regrets he had made, the guilt that seeped into every crevice and every inch that was a part of him. 

All of it was there, he knew that for sure, but it wasn’t as suffocating, he felt his chest release every sound, every cry, every single thing he wanted to let free in the months he had been there. They dissolved into sounds, no words, but they both knew what he was saying in each cry. There was raw emotion, emotion that asked for forgiveness, for absolution, but the loudest was for comfort. Harkness held fast, slowly moving them to the floor. One of them all but collapsing, the other there to catch him.

They were kneeling in that embrace for what felt like hours. Butch’s cries slowed, turning into quiet little sobs. Harkness held his breath when he heard Butch start to speak. The next few words might determine just what Butch was willing to do, and they both needed to hear them. 

“Fuckin’ hold me.”


	7. Words Flow Like Whiskey On Rocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Deloria isn't someone who backs down from a challenge, and they both know that. Will Butch be able to conquer this feat or will his demons interfere?

Harkness had to have hit his head during the fight; that was the only reason Butch thought of as to why Harkness would even let that thought get past his lips. The current bottle of alcohol was still in his hand as he cocked a nearly drunken eyebrow at the other man, he needed to choose his next words carefully.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

“You heard me right, Deloria. Drink it, all of it, while I’m here.”

Well, Butch wasn’t one to turn away from a challenge. One bottle was finished and another picked up, followed by another, and another after that. Harkness better start putting his money where his mouth was. Butch let out a drunken snort and wiped some of the excess liquor from his lips. Whiskey was hard to drink on its own, but Butch had perfected it to an art form. The trick was to just ignore everything that told you to stop and just keep going. Three bottles finished, Harkness handed him a fourth, two boxes, the table, and a few scattered around the man were left. Something niggled in the back of his mind, telling him to stop before he killed himself but Butch paid it absolutely no mind. His own mind was warm and swimming with bad thoughts and memories, but each sunk down, down, down into his mind.

“So why do it, Deloria? Is this what you did in the Vaults?”

Another bottle finished, no words spoken. What he did in the Vault was inhuman, drinking was human, and that in his mind balanced everything out. The more he drank, the more human he was.

“Feeling like you want to quit yet?”

“N-no chance!”

His words were surprisingly clear for a man who had drank 5 bottles of pure alcohol. His blood had to be more whiskey than anything else at that very moment. He was a Deloria, and if Delorias did anything well it was drink.

“What would your mother think of this? Her son’s an alcoholic.”

His mom would be happy, she’d love that the boy who killed her was killing himself. She would love that he was wasting away on cheap liquor that he had nicked from a bar. Wherever she was, she was smiling at him. Watching him down bottle after bottle of booze just so he could erase the image of her, blurring her face from his mind. He wanted her to hate him right now, he wanted her to look down with a sneer as he choked on the booze. She was laughing at him, his own mother. He hated her, he hated everything about her.

“She…she’d be happy.”

Harkness seemed stunned looking at him with a raised brow.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything more idiotic come out of your mouth.”

“You suuure about thaaat?”

“What mother wouldn’t look at you and feel sad?”

“Mine’d b-be...be happy, man. Trust….trust me.”

Another bottle of whiskey down, onto wine.

“Is that what this is about? You’re sad about mommy not hugging you enough?”

“Fuck you man! You have no idea!”

An empty bottle was tossed, missing Harkness by a few miles. Butch swayed where he stood, getting up too fast from where he was sitting. There was so much booze in him it was making him sick. He felt worse than he had ever had before. Something wasn’t sitting with him right, but it wasn’t in his stomach. His chest hurt, as if someone was stepping on his heart.

“You have no idea what I’ve seen!”

“Try me, Deloria. I’ve seen a hell of a lot.”

“Have you ever….ever…ever watched the fuckin’ life leave the one person you loved most? W-w-where you the one holding their fuckin’ corpse in your arms while you cried likea goddamn five year old!? You try living every single fucking day knowing that somewhere out there, there is a place where you were born and raised, and you started the one thing that destroyed all of it. I wake up every goddamn night seeing it over and over and over, I was too goddamn stupid and it caused some of the best people I ever knew their lives. I caused it all. I caused every single person in that Vault to die. It was my entire goddamn fault. Tell me, Chief. Tell me if you ever fuckin’ caused the deaths of so many people that didn’t deserve it that you didn’t want to live any more but you’re still too much of a goddamn coward to pull the trigger!? That’s why I fuckin’ drink! I fuckin’ killed my own mom, my best friend, and a hell of a lot of people who never had it coming. I made one goddamn mistake and it caused me the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Butch smashed the half full wine bottle on the floor. Red splashing everywhere, onto his clothes, his hands, and all over the floor. It looked just like the blood he spilt, the blood of so many people. The room swayed under Butch, Harkness made a move to catch him. He felt something snap within him. Something that had been holding on for a good, long time.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me.”

His mind was clear, every little thing going on the room was as clear as day. The sound Harkness’s armor made when it connected back with the wood, the hitch in the man’s breathing when he saw Butch wipe at an eye. Butch knew what he was doing, he knew just what he had done, and it killed him inside. Harkness had fuckin’ done it, he broke through the spikes and the leather and the hatred Butch had built around him, and he had done it with the one thing Butch was using to build that up. He had successfully done what Lana, the doctor, Flak, Shrapnel, and so many of the other people on the boat failed to do, and he had done it without blinking an eye.

“Don’t you dare fuckin’ touch me.”

Butch let Harkness grab him and pull him into the hug. The silent tears slowly dissolved into full on screaming sobs. Every single piece of him shattered into smaller and smaller bits with each scream. Harkness said nothing, just letting Butch get what he needed out. The man held him fast, even after his legs refused to do it themselves. Butch’s stomach felt horrible, his chest heaved with each breathe, his eyes burned like they never had before, but through it all he felt better than he had in a long, long time. Something within him released, that thing finally let go of all the ill will he had towards himself, the regrets he had made, the guilt that seeped into every crevice and every inch that was a part of him.

All of it was there, he knew that for sure, but it wasn’t as suffocating, he felt his chest release every sound, every cry, every single thing he wanted to let free in the months he had been there. They dissolved into sounds, no words, but they both knew what he was saying in each cry. There was raw emotion, emotion that asked for forgiveness, for absolution, but the loudest was for comfort. Harkness held fast, slowly moving them to the floor. One of them all but collapsing, the other there to catch him.  
They were kneeling in that embrace for what felt like hours. Butch’s cries slowed, turning into quiet little sobs. Harkness held his breath when he heard Butch start to speak. The next few words might determine just what Butch was willing to do, and they both needed to hear them.

“Fuckin’ hold me.” 


End file.
